Bernard Knight - Crowner's Crusade

They stopped in a bay on the mainland side of the island of Zirje, though the captain informed de Turnham in his halting Latin, that he had wanted to land on the opposite mainland.

‘It seems that the wind and the currents made it too difficult to cross the strait,’ Robert explained to the other knights. ‘He is also worried that tomorrow might bring a worsening of the wind, though, thank St Christopher, there seems no sign of that damned bora , which could take us back to Ragusa or even beyond.’

The cold, grey dawn showed them that the shipmaster was right. Once they left the shelter of Zirje, they were hit by a blustery half-gale, which took them towards the north-west, in spite of the crew’s efforts to get them back into the narrow channels between the mainland and the offshore islands of Kornat and Pasman.

The cog was far more seaworthy than the galley, but it was hopeless at sailing more than a few points off the wind. By mid-afternoon, the shipmaster admitted that they had no chance now of getting back into the archipelago that lay outside Zara.

As they raced on out into the open sea before the relentless south wind, Richard’s admiral, who was best at understanding the captain’s garbled speech, relayed the bad news. ‘He says there is no hope of getting to Zara, unless you wish to wait for days to get back to it after this gale stops.’

The Lionheart rapidly lost his recent good mood in his frustration at being repeatedly thwarted from getting back to his Norman dominions. After a string of choice oaths, he demanded to know where they were going now.

‘The shipmaster says that there is another port called Pola further up the Adriatic, on the peninsula of Istria opposite Venice. It is still within the Kingdom of Hungary and in fact, would be nearer King Bela’s capital than Zara.’

Slightly appeased, the king grunted a demand to know how long it would take to get there.

‘If this wind holds, we should be there this time tomorrow,’ replied de Turnham. He decided it would be wiser not to repeat that the captain had added ‘If the vessel doesn’t founder on the way!’

The rest of that day and the night were yet another miserable time for the weary travellers. The wind grew progressively stronger and as it was dead astern, the Medusa pitched rather than rolled, its blunt bow dipping into the waves, then hauling itself up to point at the sky. Big rollers coming up behind them in the narrowing funnel of the Adriatic constantly threatened to ‘poop’ the vessel. Poor Baldwin of Bethune had a return of his sickness and spent all his time hunched over the scuppers, retching until nothing came up except a trace of bile. At dawn, the cog still raced on, the gale not abating in the slightest, though its direction backed slightly so that it came from the south-east, which was even worse for them.

‘If this keeps up, we’ll land in Venice, not Hungary,’ said de Turnham, as he squatted in the shelter of the aftercastle with the others. ‘Though the master has just admitted to me that he has no idea where we are at the moment, only that we are being driven northwards — which any ten-year-old deck boy could have told me!’

‘So how are we going to find this Pola place?’ demanded de Wolfe.

The admiral shrugged. ‘It’s in the hands of God and his angels — the shipmaster doesn’t know! He’s used to hugging the coastline and going ashore every night, so the open sea is a mystery to him.’

Even though the crew had lashed up the sail closely to its yard, the Medusa was careering along under a bare pole from the pressure of the wind on its blunt stern and the relentless progress of the rollers that endlessly see-sawed the hull.

Once again, few slept for more than a hour or two that night and Gwyn, with his fisherman’s senses, sat up in the early hours and listened for a moment. He knew from de Wolfe’s breathing that he too was awake and touched him on his shoulder. ‘The wind has dropped a little, but I can smell land!’

Growling, John struggled to a sitting position and sniffed, but smelt nothing but the unwashed bodies around him.

‘And I can hear something, too,’ grunted Gwyn. ‘It sounds like surf on a beach.’

At that moment, there were shouts from the crew on watch and simultaneously, the pitching of the cog ceased and was replaced by a rapid careering motion as the hull was seized by breaking waves and hurled towards the land.

Pandemonium broke out as sleepers awoke and the rest leaped to their feet as the ship was driven on to a muddy shore in the darkness. It heeled over slightly and as it came to rest, the door to the king’s cuddy banged open and a stentorian voice overcame even the sound of the gale.

‘Jesus and Mary, don’t tell me it’s another shipwreck!’

At the first light of dawn, John de Wolfe stood with Gwyn on a stretch of coarse grass above a muddy shore. He had a momentary sensation of all this having happened before, but then realized that instead of a pebbled beach below a wooded hill in Ragusa Bay, they were stranded on the edge of an apparently limitless marsh, which stretched inland for miles. In the far distance, the jagged peaks of snow-covered mountains lined the northern horizon, whilst nearby, gullies and runnels of brown water meandered between reeds and bullrushes.

The survivors were clustered around the king in a ragged group, each clutching a bundle of their personal possessions carried from the Medusa, which now sat leaning over on the mud in a couple of feet of water. The wind had dropped markedly as it hit the land, but there was still a stiff breeze strong enough to whip their cloaks about their legs. Robert de Turnham had just squelched up the beach to join them, having been questioning the shipmaster, who had stayed aboard the cog with his crew.

‘The man says the vessel is undamaged and he can float it off in a couple of days when the moon brings a higher tide,’ he reported. ‘He is willing take us back to Pola or Zara if we want to wait.’

King Richard’s frustration turned his voice into an angry snarl. ‘To hell with that, I’m staying on dry land! Not that this poxy swamp is dry. . wherever it is!’

Baldwin, equally thankful to be off the heaving sea, also wanted to know where they had landed. ‘Does the shipman know where this place might be?’

‘He says he thinks it is east of Venice, in the marshes beyond the mouth of the Tagliamento. Further east is Istria, which is where Hungary begins.’

The learned clerk, Philip of Poitou, standing shivering in his wet cloak, had a better knowledge of geography that the others. ‘Then Aquileia must be hereabouts,’ he said. ‘At least, it was in Roman times, when it was one of the greatest cities in the world.’

‘Can we seek aid there?’ demanded the king, his bushy auburn beard jutting dangerously, as his temper shortened.

The clerk shook his head sadly. ‘The city was destroyed many centuries ago by Attila the Hun, sire. But the local counts who rule this region still hold the titles of Advocates of Aquileia, so there may still be some sort of settlement there.’

The Lionheart nodded brusquely, anxious for action. ‘Right, then let us seek out these Advocates and impress upon them that we are Crusaders returning from the Holy Land, deserving of their hospitality and assistance, as the Pope directs all men to provide on pain of excommunication.’

‘The Truce of God!’ intoned the chaplain reverently, crossing himself.

Baldwin of Bethune, who had been an ambassador to the Flemish Court and knew much about European politics, broke in with a caution. ‘We must be careful, sire. These counts now hold their lands in fealty to the Holy Roman Empire, so if Emperor Henry’s warnings to watch out for you have reached here, these local lords may present a real danger to us.’